


The Freedom of a Lily

by Shawn Michel de Montaigne (ShawnMichel)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), Rumpelstilzchen | Rumpelstiltskin (Fairy Tale)
Genre: Divorce, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Gen, Heartbreak, Heroism, Redemption, Villainy, breaking up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-03-14 19:16:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13596609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShawnMichel/pseuds/Shawn%20Michel%20de%20Montaigne
Summary: Belle has been changing. After an outburst at Granny's, Rumpelstiltskin, her devoted husband, decides to investigate. What he discovers will change his life forever. Read on!





	1. Cursed Complacency

**Author's Note:**

> Robert Carlyle is, to my view, one of the greatest actors in the world today. For seven seasons he appeared as Rumpelstiltskin in ABC's Once Upon a Time, a series Kye and I love, but one that was beset by massive plot-holes and poor writing, especially the last three seasons. The show, quite frankly, should have ended at the conclusion of season six, but limped on into a seventh.
> 
> Rumpelstiltskin, like Rebecca Mader's Wicked Witch, was given short shrift over the show's final two seasons. His story was utterly mangled to boot. The writers worked tirelessly to de-fang him and suburbanize him in order to appeal to suburban audiences. They also mangled in the process any adult discussion about morality and good versus evil. It outraged me to the point that at the end of season six, I stomped around the TARDIS for an hour afterward raging about poor Rumpel's plight.
> 
> I don't just let things like that go, of course. I'm a writer! And so I decided to write my own happy endings for the Wicked Witch, and now for arguably my favorite character on any television series I've ever watched, Rumpelstiltskin.
> 
> Enjoy.

**He lifted his head and looked around**. Tears and blood—his own—made the effort difficult. He wiped his forehead and stared at the red smear across the back of his hand.

 

   It seemed that little had been untouched by his rage, including his person. After a time, and with painful effort, he uncurled and pushed himself to a sitting position. He leaned heavily against the part of the glass cabinet that hadn’t shattered and worked at getting a hold of himself.

 

   How long had he lived? Time couldn’t touch him. He could die, but killing him was, to put it mildly, a difficult proposition.

 

   More accurately, somebody _else_ killing him was a difficult proposition.

 

   He let that notion settle over the destruction like a cold, wet blanket and closed his eyes. Blood dripped from his gashed forehead down onto his tie without care.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Some time later he woke. His butt and lower back were asleep. The gash on his head had clotted over, making any movement of his face sting fiercely.

 

   It was early morning—past three o’ clock. No one had come to check up on him. Not a single person in this backwoods village ostensibly full of history’s most shining fairy-tale heroes. They were probably too busy enjoying their happy endings. He let the bitterness of that settle into his colon like hot coal. He chuckled, and the pain of it responded by urging him to stand. He did.

 

   His legs were asleep. It made moving around the counter problematic. He stumbled like a zombie, and tripped just before making it to his destination—the painting which provided cover to his enchanted wall safe.

 

   He got back to his feet and waved his hand.

 

   The painting dissolved, revealing the safe. He waved his hand again and the heavy door clicked slightly open. He grabbed the handle and pulled it all the way, then reached deep inside and withdrew a long mahogany box with ornate black and gold etchings. With another wave of his hand the safe closed and the painting rematerialized.

 

   He hadn’t looked at this box in almost five years—the longest in his entire centuries-long life. He hadn’t looked at it for _her_. She had insisted that he put it up, and he had acceded. He had actually kept his word.

 

   But it didn’t matter. None of it had actually mattered.

 

   “If you love me, Rumpel, you’ll do this. For _me_.” She had said that countless times during their courtship, and then countless more during their marriage. Like some sort of enchantment, he had caved each time, and had, at least for a little while each time, done what she asked.

 

   Of course, the enchantment always wore off, and he went back to his “wicked ways,” as she called them. The only two times he hadn’t failed her, in fact, were, in order, his wedding vows to be faithful, and not long after that his fervent vow to stop handling the Dark One Dagger.

 

   Which lay in the mahogany box he held right now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It wasn’t that she changed overnight. That would have been infinitely preferable. She had changed slowly, almost unnoticeably, over the course of the previous two years.

 

   Of the changes he did notice, he thought them good—at least at first. She stopped nagging him. With that came the end of the specific nagging to have a child. She had always wanted one, but now was wavering. She had even picked out the name—Gideon. When asked what she wanted to name a daughter, she replied, “Oh, I don’t think I’ll have a daughter. I’m convinced it’ll be a son. That is, if I have kids at all. I’m not sure now.”

 

   They even spoke of leaving Storybrooke and moving to the Edge of Realms, where, it was rumored, the Dark One—he—would finally be able to end the dagger’s hold over him (according to just one of many prophecies, most of which were total rubbish) and he, ostensibly, could be free of the darkness for good and forever. They were happy.

 

   At least, he thought they were.

 

   There was nothing to be alarmed about until Friday night at Granny’s, the night before last, when she polished off a bottle of chardonnay like it was strawberry Kool-Aid. Near the end of it she glanced up at Granny herself, who busied herself by collecting their dishes, and said, “You know, Granny, that lasagna tasted like a pack of dogs gang-fucked it, devoured it, then puked it up on the front porch.”

 

   “Excuse me?” demanded Granny, justifiably outraged.

 

   “Belle?” he’d asked in stunned disbelief.

 

   “Oh, come on, Rumpel, you thought it tasted like shit too. You told me!”

 

   He glanced up at Granny, who looked ready to bash Belle’s head in with a plate. “Please forgive her. She’s had a little too much to drink tonight.”

 

   “Don’t make excuses for me! I’m not sorry!” hissed Belle. She threw her napkin at him and scooted out of the booth. She stood and glared at Granny, who glared right back. “I’ve always hated this horrible place!” With that she stumbled for the back exit. “I’m going to the bar! You two can go to hell!”

 

   “Forgive her,” he offered, quickly standing. He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet. “Keep it,” he said. The tab for the meals and the wine ran only fifty-five bucks, but he didn’t care.

 

   She snatched the money without comment.

 

   He hurried off after his wife.

 

   She was walking—stumbling, actually—down the street. He hurried to catch up to her, then decided against it. With a flick of his wrist she disappeared in a cloud of crimson smoke. He’d sent her home, to bed. With another flick he put her out. One more and he was instantly home, too.

 

   Changes. Yes. He glanced down at her as she lay sprawled across the mattress. He peered at her dress, which was even shorter than usual. And her heels, which were probably another half-inch taller. And her makeup, which was applied a skosh more assiduously, thickly, and garishly than before. But the changes until then hadn’t concerned him, which seemed utterly unlikely, because he _never_ missed details or what they potentially might signify. It was what had made him so formidable through the years: always having a grasp of the loopholes; always having a handle on what people were _actually_ doing rather than what they _said_ they were doing. Most of all, never, _ever_ taking anything for granted. Like he had been for far too long now with her.

 

   He opened her closet and took out her clothes—all of them—and examined them. He could actually put them along a time spectrum, and did. The latest fashions were increasingly slutty and revealing, black or red or hot pink, and low-cut. Why hadn’t he noticed until now?

 

   He went through her underwear drawer. Once full of pretty, flowery whites, pinks, and blues, her lingerie had steadily morphed into red, hot pink, and black, and, like her outerwear, increasingly skimpy. A black G-string actually said FUCK ME on the front.

 

   _Why hadn’t he noticed?_

 

   He put her undies back, closed the drawer, and went downstairs. He opened the liquor cabinet and took everything out.

 

   One thing became immediately clear: there was a _lot_ more booze than he had ever realized or enjoyed himself! Many of the bottles were close to empty. But he didn’t remember ever drinking Jack Daniels or Ezra Brooks, or buying a bottle of Everclear or Night Train, or six-packs of cheap beer!

 

   He angrily flicked his wrist and the booze, all of it, dissolved into nothingness.

 

   He glanced at the stairs. _What was going on?_

 

   He slept on the couch. He knew what was coming in the morning. It wasn’t going to be pleasant. And he knew where he needed to start.

 

   He made a full breakfast for her and waited patiently. She typically rose at 6 so that she could exercise, eat breakfast, shower, dress, and get to the library by opening time, which was 9. But by 10 she was still asleep, and her breakfast was getting cold. He put her portion in Tupperware (he’d long since eaten his) and then the fridge. He waited in the living room and read the local rag. He thought of opening the shop, but decided against it.

 

   At 11 he heard movement coming from the bathroom upstairs, and then the shower turning on. At 11:45 she walked down the stairs. She was wearing black jeans, a Van Halen T-shirt (one he’d never seen before), and boots, and had a backpack slung over her shoulder. He glanced up from the book he was reading (Hegel’s _Phenomenology of Spirit_ ).

 

   “Going somewhere?”

 

   She glared down at him. “I want a divorce.”

 

   He put the book down. “Because you didn’t like the lasagna last night?”

 

   “Because you magicked me from where I was going after I left that shit-hole, and because you knocked me out! I wasn’t even tired!”

 

   He stood. “Belle ... I’m sorry. But you’re not yourself. You’re ...”

 

   She went to answer, but he waved a hand at her, and she froze. Her face had gathered into a furious retort of 100-decibel profanity, her eyes like blue spears.

 

   He shook his head as though it were full of obscuring smoke. “Why ... why am I only seeing this _now?_ ”

 

   He gazed at her. The anger building in him threatened to eclipse anything her frozen face displayed. “Of course,” he spat under his breath. _“Of course!”_

 

   He stalked into the kitchen and began casting around. “Of course! Who this time? Come on, dearie, come on now.... I’ll find you. You know I will!”

 

   He didn’t find anything until two more hours had passed. By then he had torn through not just the kitchen, but the study, the library, the cellar, and the attic. He ended up in the master bathroom. There he came across his daily supplement container. He opened up every day and poured the pills and tablets out on the countertop next to the sink and began examining them one by one. When he got to his daily multivitamin, he gazed at it with suspicion, then hurried downstairs with it in his grip. Once in the library, he retrieved a magnifying glass and flicked on the desk lamp. He brought the vitamin beneath the bright yellow circle of light, and bent to examine it.

 

   Close-up, he could see tiny blue flecks that didn’t belong there. When he removed the glass, the flecks disappeared.

 

   His lip curled with rage. His picked up the vitamin with his thumb and index finger; with his other hand he waved at it. Everything that was the vitamin disintegrated.

 

   At that point, he should’ve been staring at nothing but air.

 

   Instead ...

 

   Instead the blue flecks remained floating like ...

 

   “... like bloodsucking fleas,” he growled, thinking of another group of the same, much larger, that he should have disposed of ages ago.

 

   This was their handiwork, he suspected. He opened his palm, and the blue flecks obediently floated over it. “And what are you little beauties exactly?” he growled under his breath.

 

   He would need to break out some of his equipment to find out.

 

   Belle was waiting just as he’d left her. She’d not remember anything, and wouldn’t tire while being frozen. He thought of giving her dummy memories when he released her, but decided against it. He promised her he would never do that to her. Then again, he had promised never again to use magic against her. And for years now he had been true to his word. Before he could stop himself, he muttered, “And look where that got me.”

 

   But—was she at fault? Perhaps she was a victim. Perhaps she was clueless as to what was happening to her, and therefore to him. That was possible. He’d have to determine that as well, and that required she stayed where she was. But first ...

 

   He gazed at the magical blue particulates hovering almost invisibly over his left palm.

 

   “First,” he snarled, “let’s find out what exactly you are, and exactly who wanted me to ingest you—as if I don’t already know.”

 

   He flourished his free hand and a moment later reappeared in his shop.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The spell that created them turned out to be incredibly complex. There were spells nested within spells nested within more still. Many were dummy spells—spells designed to lead the investigator down endless paths that ended inevitably in failure or a morass of even more potential dummy spells. Other spells came with “firewalls” that he was certain were designed specifically for him, for they were far more powerful than necessary, even for the “Savior,” Emma Swan. Several tried invading his mind and prompting great guilt or revulsion in him. Another nearly succeeded in getting him to destroy both his investigative efforts and the dust itself. He had to start over when he realized what was going on.

 

   Several tried to put him to sleep. And one was an astonishingly powerful memory charm. He barely liquidated it before it got to him.

 

   The longer he worked, the madder he got. Whoever (and he definitely knew now who) created this curse put in tremendous effort, time, and magical energy. This magic was as sophisticated as he’d ever seen, even compared to his own.

 

   He glanced at the clock. It was past 1:30 in the morning. He had been at this now for half a day. Thankfully he was finally making inroads. He believed he had found the spell’s authentic bits. Dutifully and painstakingly he followed them to their source. All spells had a source, a kernel, a seed. Find that, and he would likely find the means to eliminate it.

 

   He put his work down, then flourished his hand and disappeared back home. He was hungry and needed a bite to eat. Hungry, yes—but not tired. Outrage had energized him in a way he hadn’t felt in many moons. When he finally discovered what the spell was designed to do, he’d—

 

   He had reappeared in the living room. He glanced around.

 

   Belle was gone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

That was impossible! Someone had actually come into their home and had released her from the freezing spell! From _his_ freezing spell!

 

   Who was that powerful? The fleas, who had created the cursed vitamins? Swan? Regina? Hook? Who?

 

   Dumbfounded and even angrier, he went through the possibilities.

 

   The fleas or their leader? Again, maybe. But this wasn’t the same as cursing vitamins. This was next-level magic, and he was certain they didn’t have it in them.

 

   Swan? Maybe.

 

   Hook? Not without serious aid—a talisman or an accomplice very ( _very_ ) skilled in sorcery.

 

   Regina?

 

   He growled self-reproachfully. He was asking the wrong question. The right one was:

 

   Who would have the idiot courage necessary to break into his and Belle’s home?

 

   A better one: Who could have _possibly_ known that he had frozen her?

 

   It was difficult to think past his skyrocketing anger.

 

   _No one—NO ONE—pulls a fast one on_ ME _! NO ONE!_

 

   It was possible to put a magical trace on a person. But in his trust and desire to be the kind of man Belle insisted that he could be _if he just_ _tried_ , he had desisted in putting one on her. He wanted her to know that he had changed.

 

   Clearly, someone had put a trace on her, one that had informed the perpetrator that she had been frozen. They then came and released her or possibly just magicked her frozen self somewhere else.

 

   Something occurred to him then.

 

   He bent his head and closed his eyes. Very slowly and deliberately, he raised his hands to shoulder level, palms facing each other, and focused.

 

   The magic didn’t respond at first. It couldn’t get past his rage, which at this point was directionless and so behaved as a block to anything intentional. On the fifth try he achieved success. A glowing yellow light formed between his hands and quickly expanded.

 

   It resolved. Standing before him was a translucent, slightly glowing figure—him.

 

   It wasn’t a reflection. It nodded even though he didn’t. It was the nod he was looking for. Or a shake of the head. Either would’ve sufficed.

 

   The nod angered him even more.

 

   He stepped into the ghostly image, and it disappeared.

 

   To keep a lid on his anger, he began pacing the room and talking to himself.

 

   “Let’s review, shall we? My wife begins changing back to Lacey, through the effort of the fleas. That’s known now. Oh, it’s slow at first, that change, but then becomes more rapid and obvious—clothes, attitude, habits, booze, the works.” He got to the hearth, lifted a finger and ran it along the top of it, then examined the streak of dust. He turned on his heel and began marching back. “Change is good ... change is evolution ... change means life and growth—or death and decay.” He lifted that same finger. “But no matter, because I have learned through the centuries to spot change and to use it to my advantage. It didn’t matter if it was good change or bad, I could make it work to _my_ advantage. Yes, indeed.”

 

   He felt proud of himself. He was doing something right now that he had never in his life done before. In the past, had someone as important to him as Belle disappeared or been snatched from him, or put under the influence of a nefarious spell that regressed her to her cursed self, as she clearly was at this point, he would have instantly gone on a relentless hunt both for that person and their abductor, and would not stop until he had found both. But here he was instead, fighting every instinct to do just that. Here he was, forcing himself to think instead of going straight to the fleas and squashing every last one of them. He got to the opposite wall and the end table and wheeled about, his finger still in the air.

 

   “They were thorough. I notice Belle’s changes back to Lacey but somehow don’t care about them. _I notice them but don’t care about them_. Today I find out why. Because the fleas have been dosing my daily multivitamin with a spell designed to _keep_ me from caring about them.

 

   “Just a minute ago I discover that I too have a trace on me, which means they know precisely where I am at all times.” He got to the hearth and spun around. “The problem is, trace magic is very difficult, even for me. The fleas _couldn’t_ have put one on me. They don’t have the skill or the power. _I_ barely do! No one in this Happily Ever After Plothole of a town has that kind of ability.”

 

   He turned at the wall. “So who, dearie? _Who?_ ”

 

   He stopped mid-step. “I’m still missing something. Indeed.”

 

   He flourished his hand and reappeared in his shop.

 

   Once again he found himself on a search. But this time his quarry didn’t take long at all to find. Forty minutes after starting, he held up a half-empty vial of what should have been turquoise-blue sleeping potion that was now, against all reason, purple. It had been poorly hidden under a loose corner floorboard he knew Belle knew about. He picked the vial up and, while still kneeling, took a long look at it. “Now _this_ is quite interesting....”

 

   He stood and went to the back office and flipped on the desk lamp to get a better look.

 

   In a day and a half of outrages, one after the other after the other, one more at this point did little to affect his temper, mere snowflakes settling on Mt. Everest. He found himself feeling the still relatively new sense of gratitude that no one had interrupted him or walked into the shop, because then the “Old Rumpel,” as his wayward wife called him numerous times, would be ready to strike, and he hadn’t murdered anyone with gleeful capriciousness in a long time.

 

   As he very much wanted to right now.

 

   He forced himself to focus on what should be sleeping potion, now almost certainly not. Should he investigate further? What magical properties did this fraud of a potion contain, and how were they created to aid in manipulating him to be utterly ignorant and at-ease with his wife’s slow changes back to Lacey that culminated in her leaving him yesterday morning? The fleas and someone else—someone _immensely_ powerful—had successfully pulled the magical wool over his eyes for a very long time. Their planning had to have been painstaking, meticulous, and most skillfully and patiently executed. It was, he had to admit, a masterful job, a thing of beauty.

 

   He threw the vial into the wall, where it shattered and the potion spattered over the cabinet.

 

   It didn’t matter now what he discovered. He’d been royally had. He’d been conned. Belle was gone; and it was a sure bet that she was going to be _very_ difficult to find. Anyone with the skills to put this curse together wouldn’t have forgotten such an important detail.

 

   What was most painful, however, wasn’t that the curse had defeated him, the Dark One, but this: Belle hadn’t had the courage to come to him, to be honest with him, to share with him that she was dissatisfied and longing for something else in her life.

 

   His old cane was in the corner next to the loose floorboard, which was still up. He looked around, only now becoming cognizant of the fact that he had come back into the store proper. He went to the floorboard and kicked it down, then grabbed the cane.

 

   His temper, which had been safely contained to that point, boiled over.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He opened the mahogany box and stared down at the blade which had stayed nestled here in darkness and safety for half a decade:

 

**RUMPELSTILTSKIN**

 

**~~*~~**


	2. Like Something His Mothers Used to Make

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alone, confused, and depressed, Rumpelstiltskin decides to go back to Granny's for more lasagna. Read on!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I post this, Once Upon a Time is down to its last three or four episodes. Kye, my partner, and I have launched into very passionate discussions at the end of each episode as to how this seventh season should not have happened, and how the writers have worked so hard at sanding off the edges of the characters, making them safe for suburban consumption--Rumpel especially.
> 
> You can almost see the relief in Robert Carlyle's eyes knowing that his gig as Rumpelstiltskin is almost over. That's sad. But I would feel exactly like him too with the character evisceration the Dark One has endured.
> 
> This fan fiction project seeks to redress those injustices.

**The Dark One Dagger**. The price of his power. A broken remnant of Excalibur, the legendary sword.

 

   He had tried for time immemorial to break free of its grip. He wanted the power it provided, but not the Dagger itself. He thought that silly now that it was once again in his hands.

 

   “You’re just an object,” he murmured, examining it. “I haven’t looked at you for five years, or even thought of you. So you’re still with me. What of it? Most people enslave themselves to far less worthy things than you—social media, booze, drugs, fads.”

 

   He turned the blade over.

 

   Dark magic. It suffused every single cell of his immortal being. It defined him in countless ways. But with it he had saved many lives, not to mention this entire town. He had used that magic for good—for light. He had used it to rescue Belle.

 

   Here it was, ready to come to her aid once again.

 

   Here it was, ready to exact long-awaited retribution on that flea infestation.

 

   But Belle was gone, either knowingly or not with the assistance of the fleas.

 

   Who else was involved? Before he acted, he was going to make sure every single doomed duck (or flea) responsible was accounted for and in his or her proper row.

 

   He sat in his favorite cushy chair and let the late afternoon light filtering through the curtains glint off the weapon.

 

   He didn’t expect Belle to return. She was gone, probably not even in Storybrooke. Whoever had done this to her, or with her, was powerful enough to portal her pretty much anywhere. She could be in any of a hundred different realms. Finding her wasn’t possible. At least, not yet.

 

   She wouldn’t be in the Enchanted Forest. It was the obvious place to go, or to be sent, and therefore the stupidest.

 

   He flipped the blade and ran his finger over the ornate etching that spelled out his name:

 

**RUMPELSTILTSKIN**

 

   He needed sleep. He’d healed his self-inflicted wounds, magicked the store back to its original state before he lost his temper, and returned home. But sleep would not come.

 

   He put the blade down and went upstairs, where he went through Belle’s things again. Not to look for clues or hunt for more spells, but to test himself. He wanted to explore his feelings as he did, to see what, deep down, he truly felt for his wife now she was gone.

 

   Truthfully, he felt almost nothing. The fire had long since died. Not the fire of passion, which had never been that strong to begin with, but the much more important fire of friendship. It became clear to him these years that she would be much happier with a different man. She had consistently refused to accept him as he was, even though she had made many pronouncements, both publicly and privately, that she loved “the beast” within him.

 

   He had allowed her to berate him, however gently she might have done so. On occasion, and to her credit always privately, she furiously browbeat him. When that didn’t work, she’d leave. They’d make up—always after he came begging—and the cycle would begin anew. He had promised to put the Dagger up and leave it alone, and he’d made good on that promise. Even so, she never really came to trust him.

 

   Not that she had been wrong. He had manipulated her in every way possible to hold on to and expand his power. As he looked over her clothes, he thought of the time he transformed into the pirate in order to get the Dagger back again. That was pretty low.

 

   There were many more examples. Too many. None he was proud of. His part in their continuing drama was at least half, almost certainly more. Centuries of bad habits were very hard to break. He couldn’t blame her if she’d had enough and finally snapped.

 

   He fingered a black mini-skirt, released it, and sighed.

 

   Would it be such a bad thing if the marriage were allowed to fail? Would it be such a bad thing if he just ... let her go?

 

   Would the “darkness” inside him, jealous and possessive as it was, allow it?

 

   He sat heavily at the edge of their bed. After a time, he went back downstairs to sit with the Dagger.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Lasagna, please.”

 

   When Granny didn’t move, he glanced up at her. She glared down at him over the order pad. She hadn’t written his order down.

 

   “The same lasagna your wife bad-mouthed the other night, and said that you said tasted like shit?”

 

   “I never said that,” he responded. “She lied. I’ve always liked your lasagna. Once again, I’m sorry that exchange took place. And—a bottle of your best red,” he added, closing his menu and handing it up to her.

 

   She threw a significant glance at the empty seat across from him, hesitated, and snatched the menu away. He heard her grumble when she got close enough to the cook to hand him the order: “Lasagna. Make it a little extra.”

 

   The cook chuckled and got to work.

 

   It was the truth. He really did like Granny’s lasagna. It reminded him of a dish his mothers used to make, one which he couldn’t remember the name. Belle had included him in her outburst for reasons he couldn’t fathom. Was that part of Lacey’s personality? It seemed likely.

 

   Granny returned with the wine; a few minutes later she lowered a plate heaped high with steaming lasagna and garlic bread in front of him. She glanced at the empty seat again, then turned to leave.

 

   “You haven’t seen her, have you?” he asked at her retreating back.

 

   She stopped and turned around. The heat in her eyes cooled a little. She shook her head. “No.”

 

   He picked up his fork. “Thanks.”

 

   She grunted and went back to the kitchen.

 

   One of the lesser known consequences of being the Dark One was that drunkenness was not possible. He could drink all he wanted, but would never become inebriated. Oh, he could get “buzzed” as it was known—that pre-drunk state was possible. But not drunkenness. He looked up from his meal at one point and noticed that half the bottle was gone.

 

   He wouldn’t have minded getting drunk tonight.

 

   He enjoyed the lasagna more than usual. Granny’s batch was particularly satisfying. He wiped his mouth and dropped the napkin back into his lap, then took another sip of wine. The “buzz” felt good as it warmed through his heart and into his extremities.

 

   The restaurant wasn’t busy. Grumpy and three other Dwarves were in the corner drinking and occasionally guffawing, and Doctor Hopper—Jiminy Cricket—had dropped in for take-out. He paid, bags in hand, and gave him a courteous nod on his way out the door.

 

   “You wanna talk about it?”

 

   He glanced to his left. He hadn’t seen Granny approach. She stared sternly down at him.

 

   He completed the motion of bringing fork, heavy with lasagna, to his mouth. He chewed, staring at the bottle, and motioned towards the empty seat.

 

   In all the time he’d been in Storybrooke, he’d never really gotten to know Granny. She’d always seemed too grumpy, too stiff in her ways, too judgmental (especially of him) to bother.

 

   She sat across from him.

 

   “You’ve never once come in here and eaten by yourself,” she said, voicing a fact he was painfully aware of. It had taken plenty of will even to consider it, but he was tired of sitting in his big empty home and brooding. Walking out the door, he had no idea where he might go. Regina? No. She was probably with his grandson or hanging out with the Charmings or her sister. His store? He honestly didn’t know if he even cared if it stayed open from this point on or not. The Savior? No way. She’d be with the pirate. Their detente was enforced by distance, not communication. He had no urge to intrude, let alone be a nuisance.

 

   He ended up here when it occurred to him that he was hungry.

 

   “I’m sorry again for how Belle treated you,” he said after more wine. He picked up the fork and speared more lasagna.

 

   “She seems to be changing,” Granny stated matter-of-factly. “It isn’t any of my business, but have you spoken to her father lately?”

 

   He slowly lowered the fork back to the plate before its burden reached his mouth. He hadn’t even _thought_ of her horrible father! How was _that_ possible?

 

   He knew, of course. The spells those damned fairies were at least partly responsible for had seen to it that her father was forgotten!

 

   “It’s really none of my business, but ...” she shrugged. “I wasn’t truthful with you. I have seen her. I saw her walk into his flower shop just the other day.”

 

   “You didn’t happen to see her walk _out_ , did you?”

 

   She shook her head. “I was still quite peeved at her. I did consider confronting her, but then thought, ‘The hell with it!’ ”

 

   He nodded. “That’s still helpful, thank you.”

 

   “I’ve got one more bit of information to give you. I mean, it’s none of my business, your marriage, so ... well, forgive me if this is butting in ...”

 

   “Please. Go ahead.”

 

   “Well ... Belle didn’t ... smell right.”

 

   “She didn’t _smell_ right?” he demanded, and then stopped himself before angrily dismissing her. Granny was, he reminded himself, a werewolf. Or at least a former one. (He was never quite clear on that.) Her sense of smell was therefore well beyond that of an ordinary human’s.

 

   “Go on. What did she smell like?”

 

   “I noticed it the other night. To be honest, I’ve noticed it more and more for some time now. The other night it was rank. And then the other day, when she was going into her father’s flower shop, it was ...” She waved a hand in front of her nose, as though trying to swat away a pesky gnat. “... it was _whew!_ The thing is, that flower shop pretty much masks anything else I might smell near it or in it. But not Belle. I was across the street and could _still_ smell her! She smelled like ... do you remember Oldnight’s moat?”

 

   “Oldnight? Enchanted Forest Oldnight?”

 

   She nodded with a grimace. “That’s the jerk.”

 

   He allowed a small, companionable, short-lived grin to form on his mouth. “How do you know Oldnight? Of all the denizens in that wood, he may be the nastiest. And why wouldn’t I or others smell that moat on her?”

 

   He held up. “Stupid question. I already know the answer to that. Please—go on.”

 

   “I wasn’t always a lasagna-makin’ granny, Dark One,” she offered. “I too was young once. Back in my wolfin’ days, I used to ... well, let’s just say I liked making trouble.”

 

   “I’m listening.”

 

   “I robbed Oldnight with my fiancé. As you know, he was famous for being a rich miser, richer n’ you, so said some rumors! He had a mistress, just like you had Belle. He imprisoned her, just like you did Belle. What he didn’t do is fall in love with her like you did with your mistress. He kept her in his dungeon. She was a mage—a witch. Somehow he captured her. He got her to make all sorts of potions for him. One was a Willing Potion.”

 

   “A Willing Potion,” he reflected. “Something that restores at least partial control of one’s will over a curse without the need of true love’s kiss.”

 

   Granny nodded.

 

   “Like the curse of a werewolf bite.”

 

   “That’s right. True love’s kiss doesn’t work on werewolves.”

 

   “I see,” he said. “And yes. That’s true.”

 

   Willing Potions were almost impossible to create and considered even more cruel than the curse they were conjured to partially defeat. Between being totally cursed and being partially free of that curse, most people, perhaps unsurprisingly, found the latter to be as bad, if not worse.

 

   He refocused on her. “How did you know about this mistress? Oldnight was a miser, true. But he was more infamous for his secrecy. Even I couldn’t trick out his many misdeeds. Believe me, I tried.”

 

   “One of Oldnight’s guards was a turncoat and wolf like us,” answered Granny. “We gained his trust over a long time. He eventually opened up. He’d worked for that bastard for decades and knew that castle inside and out. We got in and out with almost no trouble. He helped.”

 

   “Almost?”

 

   She nodded sadly. “The mistress was a witch named Gothel. When we stole the Willing Potion, she demanded we release her. We didn’t. She vowed revenge. We didn’t think she’d ever be able to carry it out. She looked completely screwed, from what we could tell. Four years later, free as a bird, she found and killed my husband, and nearly killed Red as well. I don’t know how we managed to survive.”

 

   “Gothel. You mean ‘Mother Nature’? The angry Wood Nymph? That one?”

 

   “Yep,” nodded Granny.

 

   He glanced to the side as he tried piecing together more of the mystery of Belle’s transformation. “Yes,” he said. “Yes. That makes sense.”

 

   “What does?”

 

   He brought his gaze back to her. “You took this Willing Potion?”

 

   “I drank every last drop in the beaker once we were outside the castle.”

 

   “Otherwise you’d still be under the full curse of the full moon every twenty-nine days.”

 

   “Yes. I was in such a hurry to be free of it that I slipped and fell right into Oldnight’s moat. I still managed to have the beaker in my possession. None of the potion spilled out. But boy do I remember that smell! It stuck to me for weeks!”

 

   “A couple of questions have finally been answered,” he said. He focused on her as she waited. “Gothel must return to Oldnight once a year. She must do his bidding for the whole of winter. I always wondered why. Now I know. She must have somehow made herself some Willing Potion. Oldnight would have locked the curse before she escaped so that she could never be completely free of it.”

 

   “You can do that— _lock_ a curse?” asked Granny, looking alarmed.

 

   “Rarely, but yes. Sometimes it can be done.” He took a sip of wine as Granny let that sink in. “But as you know,” he went on after swallowing, “no lock, physical or magical, is a hundred percent secure. They can only get close to a hundred percent. The more skilled a sorcerer, the better a magical lock they can put on a curse. True love’s kiss will work, but only if the true love passes various increasingly difficult benchmarks. Gothel is powerful, but apparently not powerful or clever enough to break Oldnight’s lock.”

 

   “What was the other question you got answered?” she asked, fascinated.

 

   “You said Belle smelled like Oldnight’s moat.”

 

   Granny nodded.

 

   “What I know now is that Gothel, Oldnight, her father, or all three are _also_ involved in her disappearance.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

He paid at the register.

 

   “I may require more of your help,” he said. “Would you be willing?”

 

   Granny cocked a critical eyebrow at him as she handed him his change. “And what would be the price? Nothing comes free with you, Dark One.”

 

   “Indeed,” he offered. “But the obligation would be mine to pay. Judging by what you just said, it seems you’d be eager to be of service.”

 

   “I have always wanted justice against Gothel,” she said with an angry glare. “That bitch killed Rolf, and came within inches of taking Red’s life. No good mother—no good _person_ —would ever forget something like that. So yeah, I’m eager to help. Count me in.”

 

   “Tell you what,” he said, handing her thirty dollars for the tip—almost triple the expected amount. “Think about how you’d like to be compensated. I’d like to move on this immediately. Do we have a deal?”

 

   She stared at him for a long moment. Cautiously, she nodded. “We do. And I will. I’ll drop by tomorrow. Good enough?”

 

   “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, inclining his head.

 

   He walked out into the drizzly night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gothel was a very dangerous witch, no doubt about it. She would be a formidable foe. She had for the most part avoided him. The few times they clashed she always disappeared before the magic got really interesting.

 

   As for Oldnight ...

 

   _There_ was the true danger. Massively secretive, reclusive, and, if rumors were true, even more violent than him at his very worst. He had never directly clashed with Oldnight, who had no interest in political power or extending his magical influence. But the Dark Magic the man possessed was unmistakable and almost certainly his match, or very close to it.

 

   There were spells known as “Testing Spells.” They were launched remotely towards a suspected witch or wizard in an attempt to plumb the depth, quality, vibrancy, and reach of that witch or wizard’s magic.

 

   Testing Spells were problematic—at best. They were, to begin with, unreliable. Or, better put, they were entirely reliant on the strength of the caster. The weaker the caster, the more unreliable the Testing Spell. Being the Dark One, arguably the most powerful Dark Wizard anywhere, the Testing Spell he cast from his castle towards Oldnight’s years ago was probably as reliable as any ever conjured.

 

   The second problem with Testing Spells concerned physical distance. The farther from one’s target, the more unreliable the results. Rumpel’s and Oldnight’s castles were separated by a hundred miles of dense forest—that is, before having to cross more than two-thirds of the inaccurately named Infinite Forest before reaching Oldnight’s keep. Which led to the third problem.

 

   Testing Spells always revealed the caster to the target. There was no way to get around that.

 

   For those reasons, Testing Spells had long since fallen out of favor with practitioners of either Light or Dark Magic.

 

   But Rumpelstiltskin in those days was unencumbered by humility or restraint. So one night not long before Regina cast the Dark Curse, he cast a carefully crafted Testing Spell at Oldnight. The prospect of learning more about him was too powerful a temptation.

 

   The results came back within half a minute, as expected. What wasn’t expected was the curse riding them, one he managed to avoid by milliseconds, and one he wouldn’t have been able to avoid were he not actually gripping the Dagger. The Dagger’s raw power drew the curse away into its blade. The curse, purple-black as it appeared in the apparent realm, screamed his name in Oldnight’s voice:

 

   _“Die, Dark One, die!”_

 

   The curse tried to compel him to harm himself frantically and uncontrollably, and in the most awful ways imaginable. As the curse disintegrated into the blade, he got the involuntary and weakening desire to take a dull butter knife and yank it across his neck.

 

   He studied the results of the Testing Spell once he was sure they were curse-free. Even given plus or minus ten percent, Oldnight was indeed a formidable match.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He woke to someone pounding on his door. He turned over to glance at the clock, which read: 5:48.

 

   _“Who the hell—”_

 

   He blinked sleep out of his eyes, sat up, and completed the sentence:

 

   _“—wants to die a horrible death this morning?”_

 

   It couldn’t have been Granny. He knew from long experience living in this town that she had to be opening the diner. She would drop by later, before the dinner crowd showed up.

 

   Robe secured, slippers on, he made his way down the stairs. As he did he again thought of Belle.

 

   It was true that he missed her. But it was also true that he didn’t miss her nearly to the degree he thought he would. His freedom, in fact, was a nascent and growing guilty pleasure that he wasn’t quite ready to fully acknowledge, but was most definitely there nonetheless.

 

   Growling, he made his way through the living room to the foyer, which he crossed, his temper plummeting with each step. The pounder was at it again.

 

   He pressed the intercom button. “Whoever you are, rest assured that you better come bearing news of catastrophic importance. Otherwise, this is your one chance to leave without doing so shaped like a cockroach.”

 

   A long, tense, silent ten seconds passed. The pounder answered via the intercom. “Let me in, Rumpelstiltskin. I want to talk to you.”

 

   There was no mistaking that voice. It belong to Grumpy.

 

   Rumpel opened the door. Grumpy, glaring up at him, but obviously fearful as evidenced by his fidgety stance, declared, “I want to talk to you about Granny.”

 

   He stared at him. “Our dealings aren’t your concern, Dwarf.”

 

   He went to shut the door.

 

   Credit Grumpy: he was suicidally brave—or still drunk from partying last night. He jammed a muddy steel-toed boot in the doorjamb just before the door slammed. “She’s one of my closest friends! I’m not done with what I have to say to you!”

 

   For a moment he considered turning the Dwarf’s leg into ash. With gritted teeth, he reluctantly lowered his hand before casting the curse. He jerked the door open.

 

   Grumpy stared up at him.

 

   “You better hope that what you’ve got to say I find well worth my time.”

 

   Grumpy held up. He took a deep breath, reached up and removed his ski cap, licked his lips, and stepped fully into the house. “If you’re gonna curse me, Dark One, then do it because I failed you in a larger purpose. I can be of service to you on your quest.”

 

   “As you can see,” said Rumpel, motioning down at himself, berobed as he was, “I am not on a quest except perhaps for some coffee and scrambled eggs.”

 

   “Everyone knows what happened with Belle,” said Grumpy incautiously. “It’s all over town.”

 

   “Of that I have no doubts,” said Rumpel. “One cannot wiz on the bushes in this quaint little hamlet without it making the evening news. Again, as you can see, I’m not at present on a quest. I will be investigating what happened to her, yes, with Granny’s help. I do not at present have any intentions of leaving Storybrooke, or carrying the investigation beyond the city’s limits. My concern is simply that she is well, and that she is finding happiness.”

 

   Grumpy’s face hardened in blank confusion. It held that way for a moment, then dissolved into sympathy. That was something Rumpel did _not_ want to see. “Get out,” he ordered.

 

   Grumpy didn’t immediately move, as common sense should have prompted him to. He held his cap tightly with both fists and stared down at the floor.

 

   “You know something about what happened to her—to Belle.”

 

   He advanced on him.

 

   Grumpy, backing up against the wall next to the door, nodded fitfully. “Yes. I’m sorry—I’m sorry! I’m not interested in getting in other people’s private business, so I didn’t say anything to you. I did it out of respect to you and your marriage, not because I was trying to hurt you—or her. Please. That’s the truth!”

 

   That cooled him off a little. He had to admit that Grumpy’s bravery, as foolish as it was, was admirable.

 

   Grumpy looked up at him. “You wanna know what it is?”

 

   He nodded after a time. “Yes. Go ahead.”

 

   “You sure?”

 

   “Yes. Talk.”

 

   “I didn’t mean to,” began Grumpy, shrugging and shaking his head. “But I saw your wife with ... someone. In the woods. They were kind of ... well, _involved_ with each other.”

 

   “When was this?” he demanded, instantly visualizing the curse he was going to lay on Will Scarlet. It _had_ to be him!

 

   Grumpy shrugged again. “I don’t know ... a couple of months ago?”

 

   “Months?” he snarled. _“Months?”_

 

   “Yeah,” nodded Grumpy sadly. “Yeah. I’m sorry, man. Seriously.”

 

   He took a deep breath, steeling himself to hear the inevitable name, and said, “Go ahead. Who did you see Belle with?”

 

   The Dwarf stared. “If I tell you, will you let me out of here alive and in the same shape and form and health as I had coming in?”

 

   “That’s the only way you _will_ walk out of here in that condition.”

 

   “All right,” said Grumpy. “All right. It was ... Mulan. She was with Mulan.”

 

**~~*~~**

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Pop by my blog--ShawnMicheldeMontaigne.blogspot.com--for more excerpts, fractal art, and original work!


End file.
